


Something More

by TenpointsforQ



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-05
Updated: 2014-12-05
Packaged: 2018-02-28 05:27:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,394
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2720441
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TenpointsforQ/pseuds/TenpointsforQ
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Q and Bond have a relationship that is strictly professional, with a little sex on the side.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Something More

**Author's Note:**

> For Claudia, who donated generously to the Ao3 fundraiser in October!

The black cab drove down Northumberland Avenue and made a left onto Whitehall Place. It pulled up to the kerb across the street from an exquisite building situated on a rounded corner. Carefully, Q peeled back a few pounds from his billfold and handed them over to the driver, who looked him up and down suspiciously. Q felt the embarrassment rising up the back of his neck, but he said nothing. He only got out of the car and shut the door, waiting for the cab to drive away before he crossed the street and walked up to a set of glass double doors protected by an awning designed in a geometric pattern. A doorman opened the glass inward as Q approached, and he thanked the man as he ducked inside.  


Despite the overcast weather outside, the lobby of the hotel was brightly lit; primarily by a bulbous crystal chandelier that dangled in a half-sphere from the center of the ceiling. The light reflected elegantly from the marble floors, which were also set with round, geometric patterns. The white lobby was spotted with bright magenta flowers and plush chairs with chartreuse upholstery. Stoically, Q walked past all of these luxuries without casting a second glance at them. Instead, he headed directly towards the brass-colored concierge desk, where a pert young woman with a fashionable blonde ponytail looked at him with a bright smile and impassive eyes. She welcomed Q to the hotel, and asked if he had a reservation. As she asked, she glanced down, and seemed to take notice of the absence of luggage in Q’s vicinity. Here, Q paused, and he felt the embarrassment creep even further up his neck and around to the lobes of his ears.  


“I am a visitor of the guest in the Actor’s Penthouse. Please inform him that I have arrived.” Q hated himself as the words left his mouth. The concierge’s smile faltered a fraction, but she held it in place as she picked up the phone by her wrist. Q waited patiently, just as he always did, while the concierge finished the quick phone call and then gave Q directions to the upper levels of the hotel. He turned and began to walk to the bank of elevators just off the lobby.  


He rode the elevator alone. In the silence of his journey upwards, he tried to recover from the embarrassment in the lobby. It was always this way; having to approach the front desk to call up to whatever penthouse or suite he was summoned to. But he refused to give out his personal cell phone number. No personal contact. That was his rule. The plans were laid out in person- not to be discussed again until the time of their meeting.  


The elevator dinged and he stepped off and onto a lush carpet in a broad hallway. There were two doorways; one to his left and right. He turned to the right and knocked on the door seven times. In a matter of seconds, it opened. Q expected to see the tall blond that appeared on the other side of the door, but the fluttering in his stomach happened anyway. He steeled himself, and walked past the man and into the Penthouse.  


“007.” Q nodded as he passed the agent.  


“Q.” Bond nodded in response, a smirk curled at the corners of his lips. He closed the door. Q heard the latches slide into place. He was standing in a room with dark, wood-paneled walls fitted in exquisite molding, and seamlessly matching dark, herringbone wood floors. Extending upwards from the space was a staircase. A door off the hall lingered opened slightly, revealing a blue sitting room with bright white furniture.  


“Did you find the place okay?” Bond asked, stepping close to Q. He leaned forward and ran his lips along Q’s jawline.  


“Not with any more difficulty than the last hotel you chose.” Q said, feeling slightly breathless. He reached up, and placed a hand on Bond’s shoulder, and shifted so that he could press his lips against Bond’s. The older man gave a low groan, and pulled the Quartermaster tight against his hips.  


Together, they had probably made out in most of London’s swankiest hotels. Bond pressed his body forward, and they moved up the stairs to the second floor of the penthouse. The room opened to softly painted walls and a king-sized bed; upon which Q found himself deposited by the agent.  


It was Bond’s preference that they rendezvous in hotels across the city. Q would have settled for Bond’s flat, or a reasonable hotel somewhere near MI6, but Bond insisted on extravagant rooms whose locations changed constantly. Like Q’s refusal to use his personal number for their meet ups (even though Bond _had_ his number and had even used it on a mission or two), Bond used the suites and penthouses to keep their affair impersonal; purely about sex. Q understood this, but still balked at the 10,000 pound-an-evening rooms that Bond selected. But, as the agent said over and over again, he had more income than he knew what to do with; and he enjoyed their lavish evenings together. It was part of the dissociative nature of their evenings; how could their rendezvous be considered serious when they were always glowing from the haze of utter lavishness?  
Q felt Bond reach forward and finger at the buttons on his blazer. The jacket opened, revealing a linen shirt underneath that was once crisp but had become wrinkled over the day in Q Branch. These buttons Q undid himself. He wasn’t wearing a tie- he had taken it off and left it in his office at MI6.  


Rarely during their encounters did they speak. Chit-chat and pillow talk were also against their rules; another safeguard against legitimate attachment. As Bond peeled away his blazer and shirt and tossed them both to the floor, he was glad not to have access to what Bond was thinking. The agent loomed over him like a predator; kneeing his way onto the bed so that he was straddling Q’s thighs. Carefully, Q reached forward and began to work at the cufflinks at Bond’s wrists. He pressed his fingertips to the warmth at Bond’s pulse, intentional about ensuring that his long fingers did not encircle Bond’s skin completely. He then moved to untuck Bond’s shirttails and begin to unfasten the shirt from the very bottom button up to the top. He always moved cautiously; afraid to make sudden movements when he was so close to so perfect a killing machine. When Bond’s shirt was completely open; revealing the chiseled chest beneath, Q shifted. His cock, which was pressed tight against the front of his trousers, was becoming an increasingly obvious participant in the proceedings.  


Bond got off of the bed then and removed his own trousers- unbuckling the belt and dropping the fabric to the floor without taking his eyes off of Q’s body. Bond’s cock was hard and rose impressively from a nest of curls; curving upwards towards his abdomen. He leaned forward, straddling Q’s legs as he reached down and rubbed his calloused fingers against the hardness in Q’s pants. With a fluid motion, he unfastened Q’s pants and reached inside, grabbing the velvet heat in his palm. He languidly ran his hands up and down Q’s length; and Q felt his mouth fall open as he arched his body into Bond's grasp. He took Bond’s cock in his own hand and began to fist it steadily.  


Bond shifted about him then; causing Q to let go so that the blond could go about pulling down his trousers and pants in one motion and throwing them to the floor to join his shirt and blazer. Q felt shy for just a moment, as his bare body lay completely exposed under Bond’s heavy gaze. Then he shifted onto his knees, so that he was kneeling in front of Bond, and grabbed the agent by the hair, forcing their mouths together. Bond pressed himself forward hungrily, sending them both sprawling on the bed. Q ran his fingers over the hard body above him; feeling every scar and indent left from toned muscle. He heard a packet open, and felt the cool press of slicked fingers up against his arse. He shifted, allowing Bond greater access, and groaned when a digit entered him, followed shortly thereafter by another.  


Bond teased him for a few minutes; swirling his fingers inside of Q. He would press, hard, against Q’s prostate- grinning when the Quartermaster let out a deep, throaty groan. Q felt the heat rising in his face. Bond reached onto the bedside table and picked up a small foiled packet. He rolled it onto his cock, and nudged himself against Q’s entrance. He waited for a brief moment, until Q nodded, and then he slowly pressed inside; filling Q with a guttural groan. He pumped his hips experimentally before setting a rhythm that had Bond and Q both moaning together. Bond shifted, pressing himself more firmly against Q’s prostate. After a number of thrusts, Q let out a low, punching breath, and came. His body tightened; his muscles constricting around Bond so that his own orgasm occurred moments later. Bond then pulled out and collapsed next to Q in the bed. They would repeat the encounter once more an hour later, and then a last time two hours after that. It wasn’t until well after midnight that they had completely exhausted themselves.  


Q awoke curled up against Bond’s side. One of the lights on the bedside table had been turned on, and Bond was still awake; a novel resting against his knee. He had put on a pair of reading glasses, which struck Q as irresistibly sexy. Carefully, he extricated himself from the bed, and under Bond’s watchful gaze he began to find the elements of his earlier outfit.  


“I can get the concierge to call you a chauffeured car.” Bond offered as Q slipped back into his pants and trousers. Q never stayed the night. Another rule.  


“No need- I’m not far.” Q replied. This was a lie. He lived in Belsize Park, which was at least an hour and thirty minute walk. But he would call a cab on his own. He tugged on his shirt and blazer.  


Bond got out of bed, setting his novel down on the bedside table. He walked up to Q, and gave him a last, lingering kiss. He smiled.  


“Goodnight, Q.” 

***

Early the next morning, Bond got out of the bed and walked out onto the terrace. The sun was bright and shining over the city. He felt relaxed- a rarity, for him. He ordered a cup of coffee and drank it at a small glass table overlooking the Thames. When he finished he returned to the room, got dressed, and checked out of the hotel. The concierge was gracious as he handed over his black credit card, and maybe even slightly flirtatious- their hands touched when she handed the card back to him. He left the hotel and decided to walk into MI6. It took him just a little under a half hour.  


The moment he stepped through the doors, however, everything went crashing down around him.  


“Q’s being brought to Medical.” Moneypenny said, pulling Bond down a hallway. “His heart stopped at seven am this morning. A Q-Branch tech caught it, lucky for Q, and called an ambulance to his flat. They’re bringing him in now.”  


“But he’s alive?” Bond asked, the entirety of his insides freezing within his body.  


“He’s alive but unresponsive, as far as I know.”  


“What happened?” Bond demanded, speeding up to keep in step with her.  


“We have no idea. R caught it through the deep-tissue vitals tracker that Q installed in all of upper management.” She opened a doorway that led to a descending staircase. 

They moved quickly- winding downwards into the bowels of MI6. She stopped when she reached the door to the medical bay, and pulled it open. Her cell phone rang, and she answered the call without saying a word, and hung it up within seconds. “He’s here.”  


They moved more quickly, following the sounds of activity that were undoubtedly the medical staff trying to save Q’s life. Bond heard the chilling sound of a flat line, the pumps and prods of the doctors and nurses gathered around a gurney as it was brought to a stop in the hallway; breaks smashed into the floor as a crash trolley was wheeled over.  


Bond stopped short when Q’s figure finally came into sight. He was wearing pyjama bottoms, but he either hadn’t been wearing a shirt or the medics had removed it. Already, there were medical instruments stuck to his chest. Two nurses were injecting Q with something; an IV hadn’t been placed yet. A defibrillator was produced, and despite all of Bond’s experience with graphic injury, death, and dying; he had to look away. It didn't stop his brain from imagining Q's thin, lithe body being rocked violently by the electric currents. He could taste the bile in his mouth as he listened to the shocks being administered.  


After a moment a nurse peeled away from the pack and walked over to Bond and Moneypenny.  


“Perhaps you two should wait in another room. Someone will be in to update you.”

***  


Twelve hours later, Bond was still in Medical. His back ached and his stomach felt as if it were in knots; but that was nothing compared to the condition that Q was in. According to Moneypenny, Q’s heart had been in severe distress; culminating in cardiac arrest. His respiratory system had also seized during the height of the trauma, starving his brain of oxygen. There appeared to also be some nerve damage, as Q’s body’s responses to physical stimulants were slowed. Q himself could not confirm whether he was having trouble feeling anything, because he was comatose.  


Bond ran his hands over his rugged cheeks and leaned his head backwards against the wall. He had skipped his meeting with M, abandoned his reports, and had instead taken up residence in the small waiting room in Medical while the doctors and nurses ran endless tests on Q’s body to determine the cause of his sudden health crisis. While Bond waited, he tried not to consider why he felt so compelled to be in that waiting room; intensely worried.  


 _If anything,_ he told himself, shifting in his seat, _It’s because he’s my Quartermaster. He’s the man in my ear, and it’s okay to want him to be okay._  


But truthfully, Bond had had other Operation Guides in the past that hadn’t made it. Before his induction into the Double-Oh Program, Bond had been guided on his assignments by Q Branch Techs--underlings trained to handle the smaller missions so that the current Quartermaster could focus on the more prestigious Double-Ohs. For years, they had assisted him on a number of missions, and any unpleasantness that befell them hadn’t bothered Bond too much. He felt a passing sympathy for them, but nothing more. Then again, he hadn’t bedded any of the other Quartermasters.  


Unable to sit alone with his thoughts anymore, Bond stood and went out into the hallway. The room that Q was in was nearby, although no one had been cleared to enter it yet. He paced until a doctor that he recognized left Q’s room.  
“

How is he?” Bond asked, rounding on the woman. She had dark hair and a grim set to her jaw that Bond did not like.  


“I’m sorry Agent 007, I cannot discuss my patient’s medical information with you.” She said. Her tone had no inflection- as if she had practiced the sentence many times.  


“But he’s still alive? Is he stable? Do they know the cause-”  


“Agent 007, I am not authorized to give you any information. My doing so would be a breach in national security. You’ll have to take this up with M if you want more information.”  


She continued on her way, then- over to the bank of elevators. She summoned one, stepped on the lift, and disappeared.  
For the next few hours, Bond tried to harangue the members of the nursing staff into giving him answers on Q’s condition. When that didn’t work, he switched to excessive flirtation. He was about to move on to out-and-out threats, when Gareth Mallory appeared; casting an accusatory glance at Bond, who was leaning against the counter of the Nurse’s Station.  


“You’ve been bullying the Medical Branch.” He said. As he spoke he reached across the counter, and a nurse passed him a metal chart. He flipped it open, and read it closely. He closed it and handed it back to the nurse, who quickly found something to be engaged with on the other side of the room.  


“I am trying to determine the status of my Quartermaster.” Bond said, comfortable in his half-truth.  


“I see.” Mallory turned, and looked at the closed door that concealed Q off from the rest of the world. “We’ve discovered that Q was poisoned. An investigation of Q’s flat and the toxicology report from his blood tests found minute traces of a substance engineered for a rapid mortality rate. Apparently, they had spiked the inner coating of his tea kettle with it.”  


“Any leads on whom?” Bond asked, knowing that it was a futile question. Q’s enemies included everyone with an interest in MI6’s secrets; the list was endless.  


“According to R, Q installed a sensor in his flat that detects movement in the flat. We’re checking CCTV captures in the city on Q’s route home to determine when he would have entered his apartment last night. Once we know what chunks of time to disqualify, figuring out when and who entered the flat is our next step.”  
Bond felt a gnawing in his gut. He wanted the person who did this to Q to be caught. He wanted it more than anything.  


“Q didn’t get home until after three in the morning last night.” Bond said, crossing his arms over his chest.  


“How could you possibly know that?” M asked.  


“He was with me. He left my company at three in the morning, and took a cab home.”  


"Where?” M asked.  


“Excuse me?”  


“From where did he take the cab? We need to know how long his commute would have been.” M said, eyes narrowing.  


Bond took a deep breath. “From the Corinthia Hotel.”  


M cursed, looking livid.  


“You’re fucking him, aren’t you?” He asked, taking a menacing step closer to Bond.  


“It’s nothing. Just an extracurricular activity.” Bond said flippantly. As he said it, he felt as if his throat was seizing on the words.  


“Which is why you’ve been sitting in Medical Branch for almost fifteen hours.” M said pointedly. “Inter-office relationships are expressly forbidden, Bond. They are a threat to national security and workplace cooperation. You of all people-”  


The dark-haired doctor from earlier appeared- straightening her lab coat before she entered M’s field of vision.  


“Sir? I have an update on Q’s condition, if you would like to meet privately.”  


M cast a heavy look at Bond, and then returned his attention to the doctor.  


“I would, thank you.” 

***  


Two days later, Bond was finally allowed into Q’s room. He suspected that Mallory had taken pity on him; Bond hadn’t left Medical in 36 hours. Q was unconscious, but was supposed to awaken at any time. When Bond was led by a nurse to Q’s new room- farther from the main hustle and bustle of the hall- he noticed that his face was gruff from being unshaven, and his eyes were ringed with red and underlined by purple shadows. But despite all of that, Bond jumped at the chance to go into Q’s room. It felt like an eternity since he had seen him, and yet as if no time at all had passed since they had shared a lingering kiss in the hotel penthouse.  


He walked into the room and shut the door most of the way behind him; leaving it cracked in case one of the nurses needed to enter the room.  


When he saw Q lying in the bed, Bond’s heart jumped up into his chest. For days, he had felt his guts twisting every time he thought about the damage that had been done to his Quartermaster; but that was nothing compared to the shattering pain he felt looking down at the man whose body was enveloped in the MI6 Medical bed. Tubes crisscrossed the tiny body, and monitors beeped endlessly from around the room. Bond pulled a small chair from the corner of the room, and he brought it next to Q's bed. He settled into it; his body feeling impossibly heavy. Instinctively, he reached out and took Q’s hand, stroking the soft, cool skin.  


It was then that he realized that he was more than just attracted to Q. Seeing the man laying, blank and unmoving, made him realize how much he missed the Quartermaster’s nervous laugh and his obnoxious tendency to roll his eyes. For all of their quiet nighttime encounters, Bond had just as many boisterous exchanges with Q throughout his missions. It struck Bond, not for the first time, that if Q had felt comfortable spending the night with him- if they had just broken their stupid rules- that Q would still be conscious, and healthy, and well.  


Bond picked up Q’s hand and brought it to his lips, and then pressed the skin to his cheek. He set Q’s hand back down on the bed, and leaned in close.  


“I’m so, so sorry Q.” He said, his voice filling the otherwise quiet room. “I’m sorry that I encouraged us to hide this; to tuck our relationship away and not to take what we were developing seriously. I’m so sorry that you went home and were alone when I should have been protecting you, as often as you protect me. If you can hear me, I want you to know that I care for you, so deeply, and every moment that I’ve spent these last few days without being able to see you and hear your laugh and feel your skin has been the most despicable torture, and I am desperately and truly sorry for every part, big and small, that I played in making that torture a reality.”  
Bond felt his chest aching, and he laid his forehead against the bar of Q’s medical bed. He stayed there for a few seconds, and then was shocked to feel a slight pressure on his hand. He looked up, and was aghast to see Q’s eyes open; his face turned and aware and looking back at him from beneath the tubes and the breathing mask affixed to him.  


“Q! Oh thank-” Bond stood and pressed a kiss to Q’s forehead, his hands flying into the Quartermaster’s hair. He was thrilled to feel Q lean heavily into his touch. Bond sat back down, arranging himself at eye level with the other man.  


“It’s going to be different now.” Bond said, squeezing Q’s hand. “You and me. If you’re willing, if you want it, we’ll make it different.”  
Q couldn’t speak, because of the machinery. But he nodded fervently, and Bond stood to place one more kiss against the other man’s cool skin.  


“I’m going to get a nurse.” Bond whispered, trying to will himself to leave Q’s side. When he finally managed, he was shocked to find M standing directly on the other side of Q’s door. Clearly, he had heard the entire exchange on the opposite side of the door. Bond braced himself for his outrage.  


Instead, M only nodded and put one hand on Bond’s shoulder.  


“Take care of him, 007.” Was all he said as he turned and walked towards the Branch exit.

  
***  


Three weeks later, Q found himself standing outside of an ornate building in the heart of London, leaning heavily on a richly colored cane. The glass doors were opened by a doorman in a gray suit, and Q leaned against the wall and took out his phone to text Bond.  


 _I’m here._ He wrote. His fingers struggled to type the words, but after a concerted effort, he succeeded. Instantly, there was a reply.  


_Come on up._   


It had been a long three weeks, which had been largely spent in rehabilitation, trying to regain the full use of his body after the poison had damaged his nerves. There had been tears, and anger, and the soothing feeling of Bond's hand on the back of his neck or under his arm. While he was in the MI6 hospital, Bond had facilitated a move from his current flat to a new one. R installed an even more intense security system. For the first two nights, Bond had sat in a chair in Q's living room while he slept, getting up to check the perimeter every hour. The identity of the poisoner had not yet been discovered, but Q had complete faith that the double-ohs would figure it out soon enough.  


So Q made his way through the marble lobby and to the lifts. He took them to the ninth floor, and stepped out into a plush, carpeted hallway with pinstriped wallpaper. Q took a right, and knocked on the door that he had been directed to earlier. Once again, the door was opened by Bond; the agent grinning at Q as he pulled the door open and ushered Q inside with a kiss that was mostly tongue but a little teeth- an edge of danger and excitement tangible in them both. Bond pulled away, and led Q further into the room. It was decorated in dark leathers, deeply colored woods, and antique elements that somehow managed to soften the room instead of date it. Q looked around, and grinned.  


“So this is your place, James. It’s lovely.”  


“Wait until you see the bedroom.” Bond laughed, running his hands along Q’s hips and placing a small series of kisses along Q’s neck.  


Bond led the way to the bedroom. Q followed eagerly- adjusting a small bag on his shoulder that carried a number of creature comforts. He would be spending the night.


End file.
